


Yours

by haiplana



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Love Letters, Mental Institutions, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haiplana/pseuds/haiplana
Summary: After Isabella is locked away in Bedlam, Charlotte's guilt weighs heavily upon her. She finds solace in writing letters to Isabella even though they cannot reach her.





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an amazing prompt.
> 
> Thanks to @artemisodinson for beta-ing

Charlotte Wells is too late.

She had rushed to the estate of Isabella Fitzwilliam with the intent of earning her trust and her compassion back, with the intent of saving her from Harcourt’s wrath, whatever that may be, but a sinking feeling in her stomach told her that it was in vain.

Still, she hopped out of the coach almost before it had stopped moving to get to the front door. The footmen were outside, and they looked at her with their usual impassive faces. Charlotte wanted to scream at them to open the door.

“I’m here for the lady of the house,” Charlotte said in her usual way. The man on the right looked down at Charlotte.

“She’s gone.”

Charlotte wanted to scoff. “Gone, is she? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Perhaps he sensed her urgency, or remembered her from before, or knew of her relationship with Isabella in some way. Whatever it was, he had the dignity to look a bit sad.

“She and the Most Honorable Marquess left in the coach but a few minutes ago. They were headed to Saint Mary Bethlehem Royal Hospital.”

The color drained out of Charlotte’s face. “Bedlam,” she whispered. She stumbled back toward the coach, climbed in, and drove off.

She’s too late.

At Greek Street, she collapses into a chair at the kitchen table. Finally in a familiar place, she finds the strength to let the tears fall. They start slow, one drop rolling down her left cheek, then another on the right, and then she’s sobbing. She bites her finger to keep her cries at bay. She doesn’t notice the footsteps behind her, doesn’t hear her pa enter the kitchen.

“Charlotte, we have to talk about managing the—”

Charlotte sucks in her sobs and turns to look at him, but he’s already rushing to her side and sitting in the chair beside her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. His embrace, the same one that she’s been receiving for years, makes the swirling of emotion — guilt and heartbreak and love and sadness — fill painfully in her chest. She sobs, loudly, into his shoulder. It’s barely muffled by his coat.

“I’m too late.” Charlotte shakes her head. “I’m too late.”

William tries to ask what she means, but all Charlotte can do is repeat those words over and over again. Her imagination runs wild — she sees Isabella, stripped of her clothes and chained to some bed in a cold and dark room. It’s unbearable for Charlotte.

Some time later, Charlotte is aware that another person comes into the room. Nancy speaks to William lowly, though Charlotte wouldn’t be able to hear her anyway through her sobs and the haze of grief. She can’t move her limbs, can’t bring herself to do anything. William knows this and scoops her into his arms. Soon, she’s being laid onto a bed. It’s the bed she’s shared with Isabella only once before. The thought brings fresh sobs tearing from her throat.

“What’s wrong with Charlotte?” Jacob asks their father. Charlotte hears this, can hear the fear in his voice.

“Even the strongest of us break sometimes, my boy,” William says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Nancy kneels beside the bed and fills Charlotte’s blurry view. “Oh, Charlotte.” She takes a handkerchief to Charlotte’s teary face and wipes away the wetness. It’s only replaced by more drops of salty water. “Come on, tell me what happened.”

“It’s not Mags.” William’s voice is thick. “I don’t know what, but it’s not that.”

“It will always be that,” Nancy says over her shoulder.

Anger, hot and strong, wells up in the center of Charlotte’s chest. It sets her heart beating and brings new tears to her eyes. “I’ll kill him,” she whispers. She clenches her teeth and balls her fists. “I’ll squeeze my hands around his throat and kill him.”

“Who?” Nancy asks, hand gently resting on Charlotte’s head.

“The Marquess of Blayne. He’s thrown Isabella in Bedlam.”

Nancy releases a long breath and looks back at William. “She’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

“It won’t,” Charlotte says. “I was too late, and now Isabella is gone.”

 

* * *

 

_October 13, 1763_

 

_Dear Isabella_

_It has been a few weeks since you’ve gone away. I’ve missed you every waking hour of every day. Nancy suggested I write to you — apparently it helps her with her grief for Ma. It took me so long to write because I felt guilty. The way we left things was terrible, and I was sorry for my fault in that. I was angry with you, but all that went away when I found out what Harcourt had done to you. I only grieved for you, because I let my selfishness get in the way and I couldn’t protect you. Now I’m missing you, so I finally made myself write._

_I’m sad that you’ll never read these. The hospital won’t give letters to patients — I checked. Maybe I can just pretend that you’ve read these and that they’ll lead to your forgiveness. I would ask for your forgiveness, but I know that I would be lucky to have it and would therefore not gain it. I have not been lucky since you left._

_I check on Sophia at least once a week. We have to be careful about it because Harcourt is guarding her well. I don’t think he suspects that Sophia is his child, and if that is what is keeping her safe, I will make sure he never finds out. She says that he treats her well, but I see a fear in her eyes not unlike what existed in yours. I don’t think he’s damned her, not yet, but if he does I promise I will kill him, damn the consequences. It’s what you would have done._

_With Ma gone, I’ve inherited the house. I’m now the revered bawd of Greek Street. Who would have thought that I’d ever give up the throes of harlotry to become a bawd? Business is fair, though not as good as when Ma was head of house. The girls don’t respect me yet. The good thing is that Lucy is living with us. After Lord Fallon, I think she’s come into herself. She isn’t the scared little virgin anymore. She brings in good business, as do the new girls. Nancy lends me a girl every so often. Pa knows how to run the house better than me, but I’m a quick study. Things should pick up._

_It seems wrong of me to live my life normally with Ma dead and you gone. You’re suffering in a place worse than hell and I’m left here to entice men with my beauty and wit as though nothing is wrong._

_I never got to thank you for what you did to get Ma pardoned. It was a great risk to you and to Sophia, but you did it anyway and you were brilliant. I never told you how amazing it was to see you stand up to that wretch of a man. It’s silly, I know, but it was rather attractive. The way you square your shoulders and speak so surely is captivating. I miss it. There were so many ways in which I could have thanked you, and I didn’t do it at all. Now I never will._

_With my most sincere grief and regret,_

_Charlotte Wells._

* * *

 

 

_October 25, 1763_

 

_Dear Isabella,_

_Lord Liddington has gone to trial for the murder of Kitty Carter. She was one of our girls, a friend of mine, actually. Brilliant in bed and a smart girl, too. They found more evidence that Liddington murdered her, though it was Fanny Lambert who found the button in Kitty’s hair that belonged to Liddington’s coat. Perhaps there is true justice in the world._

_Ma would have loved to be at the trial. She was devastated over Kitty’s death, as was Nancy. We attended together and sat in the first row with Fanny and the baby. Your brother was there, the wretch, to speak on behalf of Liddington, but his argument was half-hearted. Liddington was destined for the gallows from the start._

_Sophia is keeping up with her studies. She’s a bright girl, just like her ma. She’s beautiful like you, too. I’ve taken her to Greek Street a few times to tutor the girls. She’s taken a liking to Jacob, and the little sprout seems to fancy her, too. He and I seem to share the same taste for the Fitzwilliam women. Lucy likes her. Sophia gave Lucy a gown — they’re about the same size — and Lucy’s done Sophia’s hair and taught her some things about London. I promise we aren’t turning your daughter into a harlot, unless she wants to join us. Then I can’t be held responsible._

_Sometimes I try to imagine how you are, but then I remember the stories I’ve heard and I think that you’re dirty, starved, in chains, and I get sick._

_I’m so sorry,_

_Charlotte Wells._

 

* * *

 

 

_November 1, 1763_

 

_Dear Isabella,_

_We held a great celebration on Greek Street for Hallows Eve. Ma would have loved it. You would have loved it. I’m not sure if you would have come, since I know your presence on Greek Street sullies your name. I hope you would have said to hell with it and come anyway. We made it into a great house of horrors. We hung dark scraps of fabric and covered all the lamps in red shades. All of the food was unique, and anyone who dared try it was in for an exotic treat. Nancy’s girls came, and Emily Lacy and Charles Quigley and Harriet Lennox. Justice Hunt let Violet Cross attend and she snuck Amelia Scanwell out of the house. They left poor Mrs. Scanwell behind. It would have been spoiled with her there._

_I wish you’d had the chance to meet all of these people. My people._

_Anyway, the men arrived in their coaches and Pa, dressed as a ghoul, led them inside. The girls hid behind doors and around corners, and they snared their culls with ghostly laughs and undead eyes. It was all in good spirits. The musicians played the most terrifying of sounds. Jacob spent the night running around and jumping out of hiding spots. He scared me a few times._

_Lucy asked to bring Sophia, and I said she could only come for a few minutes. It was well of me to do so, because she would have been caught up in the madness and might not have recovered. But she helped us do some of the decorations and toured the house once it was finished. I’m glad Sophia has found a friend and Lucy, and Lucy a friend in Sophia. It’s changed both their minds about our worlds._

_I once thought that your life was so simple. Not your life, specifically, but the life of any courtier. I thought that you woke and were bathed and dressed and ate and partied and wanted for nothing. That was before I knew you. Of course, I at first thought you a rich and careless woman with a simple reputation-ruining secret. I judged you far too soon. I didn’t know that you had been abused, like me, but forced to live with the man who raped you, at his mercy. If I had known sooner, maybe I could have…_

_It gives me hope to see Lucy and Sophia. It reminds me that we can all forget about titles and class and just love each other._

_Your friend,_

_Charlotte Wells._

 

* * *

 

 

_November 15, 1763_

 

_Dear Isabella,_

_It’s been a busy week. The culls are coming in quickly, now. It may have been the party, or the allure of a murderess’ former house that’s bringing them in. Men have an odd taste for danger. They think reveling in it makes them stronger, more invincible. I think it makes them fools._

_We live in danger every day, as women and as harlots. We’re in danger of being raped, of being murdered, of going hungry or being stuck out in the cold. They live with no threats and no fears. It makes me hate them sometimes. The only good men I know are Pa and Jacob, and Rasselas, too, and one of them isn’t even a man yet._

_Jacob’s tenth birthday is tomorrow. It’s his first without Ma. I don’t know what to do to make up for it, but I’m doing my best. So is Lucy and Pa and Nancy. Even Sophia has been trying to cheer him up._

_I thank the heavens (or whomever or whatever is listening) for your daughter. She may have been borne of damnation, but she is as good and pure as you once were._

_I don’t enjoy writing about you in the past tense._

_Your friend,_

_Charlotte Wells._

 

* * *

 

 

_November 18, 1763_

 

_Dear Isabella,_

_Amelia has moved back into the house with her mother since her engagement with Hunt was called off. She still sees Violet every day. I think they’re very obvious, but Amelia is convinced that Hunt doesn’t know a thing. Everyone in the house finds it amusing — except for Mrs. Scanwell, of course._

_Anyway, I spoke to both Amelia and Rasselas today. Rasselas, you might not know, is a molly boy, and Amelia, as you know, is involved with Violet. We spoke, rather covertly, about these feelings that can’t be named. The ones that I assume you were talking about that would bring about destruction to London and the seas and the skies. We don’t have a proper name for it, not one that doesn’t make me squirm. Amelia calls it sin, Rasselas calls it love. I don’t know what to call it._

_We never spoke of it, you and I. We never put a name to it. A gift, I called it, but that wasn’t all it was. Our affections were deeper than lust. They had to be. I know how to have sex, and I don’t know how to make love, but what we did was beyond the boundaries of sex and nearing what I’ve experienced to be love. I didn’t know what it meant then, but now I feel that it means something._

_Amelia doesn’t understand how she’s become what she is. She doesn’t hate herself, though she thinks that she should. Whenever she’s with Violet, though, she forgets what she’s been taught and what she’s supposed to think and she just lets herself feel. I think that is a good way of putting it. With you, I just felt. It wasn’t until after that I thought, and that made the feeling all the sweeter. It’s funny that what I thought we had was only friendship. As much as I dislike admitting that I’m wrong, I think I was wrong. It’s probably too late to find out._

_Yours,_

_Charlotte Wells._

 

* * *

 

_December 1, 1763_

 

_Dear Isabella,_

_There is so much I want to say to you. Too much._

_Writing these letters has helped with my grief and guilt, but the truth of it is that you will never read these._

_I’ll never speak to you._

_I just…_

_There is so much that I want to say that I cannot._

_Yours,_

_Charlotte Wells._

 

* * *

 

_December 10, 1763_

 

_Dearest Isabella,_

_It’s a cold night and I’m missing you. I miss the way you feel in my bed, tucked into my side. I miss the curl of your hair and the curve of your waist. I miss the bright look in your eyes when you smile. I miss the way you look when you come._

_I should feel bad about these thoughts because of your situation. It’s selfish of me to want you while you might be tearing your hair out and going insane from starvation and mistreatment. I should be thinking of ways to break you out of your prison instead of the ways I want to touch you._

_But, oh, I want to touch you, Isabella. I want to pull the clothes from your body slowly, savor each layer that brings me closer to your flesh. I want to pull your hair from its contraption and run my hands through it. If you were here, I would cover your body with my hands, feel every inch of you so that I’d know you were real. I’d look at your beautiful breasts and your soft stomach and kiss all of the marks you have from pregnancy. I would kiss your full lips. Then, I would explore you with my mouth — kiss your breasts and your thighs and elsewhere._

_You’re the only woman I’ve been with. Did you know that? Or did you think I had bedded another woman before you? I had never thought it an option for myself; of course for other people, but not me. Then I saw you and I was intrigued. I couldn’t get you out of my head, to be honest. I couldn’t stop picturing your serious face, your gorgeous blue eyes, your fair skin. After Pleasure Gardens, I thought that perhaps you felt the same about me._

_Thank you for allowing me to give you the gift of pleasure. It is a great honor to have given it to you. I wish I’d had time to tell you my story, if only to truly show you how worthy you are of love._

_The anger that I feel towards your brother for what he did to you when you were young is like no other anger. Now, after putting you away, I’m about ready to kill him. Like mother, like daughter. But he took you away from me, away from the world. He is the reason for all your suffering, and in your suffering lies the source my unhappiness._

_All I long to do anymore is to hold you in my arms and touch you until you shake with ecstasy. I dream of the way my fingers feel inside you, and of the way your mouth felt on my neck, your nails digging into my back and thighs. I have never wanted another person the way I want you. My desire for you has turned me into Sappho._

_I want you so terribly that on the rare chance I do entertain culls, I can only picture you beneath me, your lips swollen, your hands searching for me. It is all the strength I have not to call out your name._

_Yours,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_December 23, 1763_

 

_Dearest Isabella,_

_What I did to Abigail, the innocent girl your brother raped in Quigley’s, haunts me every day. Before I sleep, I see her pained eyes staring at me. Then I see your face, telling me it was not my crime. You are the only one to be so trusting of me. Now that you’re gone, I’m finding it harder to believe that I was not solely to blame._

_Yours,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_January 1, 1764_

 

_My dear Isabella,_

_It is a new year. All night, as the others celebrated the passing of time, I sat alone thinking about my life. At this time last year I was entertaining the likes of Sir Howard George and stunning all the men of London. I took great pride in being desired so and it made me happy. I can’t even imagine how that feels now. The only thing that would make me truly happy would be to have you here to kiss at midnight._

_The night we shared was the greatest in all my life. It hasn’t been a long life, but it has been eventful, and I can say with certainty that your body and your pleasure has been the best I have bared witness to. Perhaps it takes a pair cursed and damned as we are to make great pleasure. Or perhaps it is the love I felt for you, and the love you gave to me._

_It was love. I am strong enough to admit that now that time has passed. I wish that I had been able to understand it and feel it when you were here. Then I would have been able to tell you. My foolishness is the reason you are locked away, most likely thinking that you are unloved. It makes me cry to think of it._

_But it’s not true, Isabella. Your daughter loves you, loves what few memories she has of you._

_I love you. I loved you when I schemed with you, I loved you when I bedded you, and I loved you when I last quarreled with you. I love you now, as you are locked away and out of reach. If only my love could bring you home._

_After you fell asleep that night, I wondered if you’d ever find a home in Greek Street. I wanted you to stay, to not leave in the morning like you did. I should have asked. It would have kept you safe. I know that you would have declined. You are a lady, and we are harlots. It would have never worked. I would be naive to think you would ever be able to give up your world just to be mine._

_I’m looking in on Sophia today, just to make sure she is safe. She hasn’t been around much, though Lucy has made sure to check on her, and I have seen her, of course. Jacob misses her on Greek Street._

_I miss you._

_With love,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_January 1, 1764_

 

_My darling Isabella,_

_Thank you for bringing Sophia into this world. She is absolutely brilliant._

_When I took tea with her today — Harcourt was out — she presented me with a plan. She has seen Harcourt’s desk and knows how to get into its locked drawers. The key sits in his bedroom, which she has seen and she believes she can steal it._

_(I will be exacting justice for why she has seen his room)_

_Harcourt is taking a trip to the country for a few days in three weeks. It is Sophia’s idea to take the key just before he leaves, then steal his letterhead and your hospital papers once he is gone. Sophia will bring the papers to us on Greek Street, and we will have someone forge Harcourt’s script and signatures. Then we can take them to Bedlam, and we can get you out._

_I’m trying not to have too much hope. This is a risky plan, and you are committed to this hospital for life. I just pray that they will take Harcourt’s word for it and let you out._

_I need you to come home to me._

_With love,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_January 11, 1764_

 

_My darling Isabella,_

_Business is doing well here on Greek Street. I quite like being a bawd, though there are things about harlotry that I miss. I don’t think I miss the sex, now that I have known pleasure from you. But I do miss flashing smiles and making eyes at courtiers in card clubs and coffee houses. There is a certain skill to it, to attracting men without being ruled by them, and I have a natural gift for it. I’m sure you know that._

_I figure I should tell you my story in this letter, even if you never read it, which you most likely will not._

_My Ma was sold to Lydia Quigley for a pair of shoes when she was ten years old. Lydia locked her in the house and put her to work immediately. Ma became pregnant with me while she was there, and I lived there for a little. I guess Ma didn’t want me to be raised under Quigley’s roof, and she was right for it — Quigley told me that as a baby she had been sizing me up for use. Ma and Nancy, who was also with Quigley, escaped and worked their way up to where they are now._

_Or, in Ma’s case, where she was._

_I was raised by Ma and Nancy, and then Pa when they met and fell in love. Lucy was born when I was five, then Jacob when I was ten. Times were hard for us in the beginning. Ma was still entertaining culls, and it took until I was twelve for us to really buy a proper house. We only had two girls working for Ma, and Nancy’s three, and with three children it was hard to get going._

_Ma had big aspirations for me and Lucy. We were to learn the trade and find wealthy keepers as soon as we could to take care of us. I didn’t know it back then, but she was ambitious and greedy. She was struggling with how slow our progress was, and it was making her angry. There were some days where she wouldn’t speak to anyone, others where she would shriek at us to no end. I guess that was when she decided it was my time to go into the family business._

_I always knew that I was going to be a harlot — there was no other option for me, and I didn’t mind the idea. I grew up surrounded by strong, intelligent, attractive women who were good at their jobs and taught me everything I needed to know. When I was twelve, Ma told me she was going to sell my virginity to the highest bidder. I had no choice in it. I had known it would happen some time, but I was twelve. I had just barely become a woman and Ma was expecting me to entertain men._

_From the beginning, I was terrified. We went to a play, where Ma knew our wealthiest culls would be waiting, and she took bids after the show. I was shaking the whole night. I suppose I was pretty, because I sold well enough. I remember the man’s face — everything about him, really — but I don’t remember his name. He was old and he scared me. I did my best, and I got through the night. Two days later, Ma bought us our house._

_The job was easy after that, and I learned how to enjoy it. Now you know how I became the notoriously desired harlot of London._

_Your love,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_January 14, 1764_

 

_My darling Isabella,_

_I have been saving money for us. I know it won’t hold a candle to the fortune your brother keeps from you, but I hope it will be enough to satisfy you. That is, if you choose to stay with me, though I know you won’t. You and Sophia certainly cannot stay with Harcourt, of course. Perhaps you will decide to take her abroad with what money you can gather. I promise that I will help you in any way that I can. I just hope you’ll stay with me._

_With love,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_January 19, 1764_

 

_My darling Isabella,_

_I write this letter with trembling hands. It seems as though you will not come home to me. Harcourt has decided that Sophia will go on the trip with him, and she will not be able to aid us in stealing the papers._

_I knew not to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help it. I truly thought that this would work. It was an excellent plan, thanks to your daughter. But now she is stuck with Harcourt, at his mercy, and I cannot save either her or you._

_How helpless I feel in this moment. God, I would charge to that hospital and rip those chains from you if I had the strength. There is truly nothing that I can do. I cannot even keep Sophia here because I fear Harcourt would set fire to the house with all of us in it. It’s taking all of my will not to march to his estate and run him through with a knife. Then you would truly be stuck in Bedlam, so that is not an option._

_I am so, so sorry Isabella. I have failed you again._

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

_January 22, 1764_

 

_My most dear Isabella,_

_This may be the last letter I write to you for two reasons. The first, and most preferred, would be that my plan goes well tomorrow and you return home to me. The second would involve my death. Sophia has stolen the key from Harcourt’s room and has brought it to me. After they depart, I will enter the house through a side door that Sophia will unlock. I have to sneak around the servants, though Sophia’s maid knows I’m coming. She’ll make sure everything is clear for me. Once I get to the desk, I will search it for the papers and the letterhead. Hopefully I will be successful._

_If I am successful, Nancy will forge Harcourt’s script. It should take a day, and then we will be able to deliver it to the hospital. Pa will deliver it and pick you up in the coach, just as he did with Sophia. Then you will come home to me. We will feed you and bathe you and care for you until you are well. After, you can decide your next move._

_You have been my greatest love, Isabella, and my greatest sorrow. I owe this to you. Lucy will inherit the house if I am to die, and Jacob will have the wealth I am hiding. My family will keep Sophia safe in any way that they can. I regret that these letters will not reach you after I die. You will never know how loved you are._

_I rarely pray, but tonight I am praying for you. It is your life that drives me to get through every day, and it is the promise of your life continuing safely and with me that fuels me to do this. I am not afraid._

_Yours,_

_Charlotte._

 

* * *

 

 

Isabella arrives at Greek Street on a Tuesday evening.

They’re all waiting impatiently, though no one is as anxious as Charlotte, who is pacing the length of the parlor, when the door bursts open and William is shouting into the house. Lucy jumps up from the chaise, Fanny rushes into the kitchen, and Nancy comes running. Charlotte is the first into the hall to see her. The sight of Isabella, wrapped in a blanket and in William’s arms, brings her to tears.

“Crying won’t help her,” Nancy says, a hand on her shoulder.

Charlotte can’t help it, though. She is so relieved she can’t bear it. William takes Isabella straight to the parlor while Lucy, Jacob, and Amelia push the chaise to the fire. William lays her on it and Fanny brings another blanket and water.

Upon further examination, Charlotte can see the rings around her wrists from chains. Her eyes are red and swollen, her hair is unwashed. She looks thin and small, like a little girl. It brings more tears to Charlotte’s eyes.

“She fainted on the way from the building to the coach. She’s awake now, but barely.” William goes to the kitchen to fetch a cold rag.

Charlotte kneels beside Isabella’s head. “Isabella?” She places her hand on Isabella’s cheek. It’s sallow and hot with fever. “We’re going to get you water and then we’ll bathe you, okay? Isabella?”

“Here, give Charlotte the glass,” Nancy says, and Fanny hands Charlotte the water to pour into Isabella’s mouth. She’s able to get Isabella to drink a little bit, and then Isabella coughs weakly.

“She has a fever.” Charlotte presses her lips to Isabella’s forehead to check again. William hands her a cold, wet rag.

Isabella opens and closes her mouth a few times, but Charlotte barely notices as she frets over Isabella. “Charlotte,” Isabella rasps. “Charlotte.”

“I’m here. I’m here, Isabella.” Charlotte’s voice is thick with tears that fall onto the rag as she cools Isabella’s head.

“I’ll get the bath ready,” Amelia says, and she leaves. Charlotte doesn’t care who else is in the room anymore now that Isabella is there.

“Kiss me,” Isabella whispers, her hand reaching weakly for Charlotte.

Charlotte leans down and presses a kiss to Isabella’s lips. It is soft and Charlotte’s lips are trembling. It is everything that Charlotte has wanted and a reminder of what she has had.

“Drink more,” Nancy says, softly, from above. Isabella nods, her eyes closed, and lets Charlotte bring the cup to her lips.

Lucy clears her throat. “Is there anything else I can do?” Charlotte looks at her, sees the helplessness in her eyes that Charlotte feels in her chest.

“Start on supper.”

They get Isabella to drink two cups of water before they decide to bathe her. William carries her upstairs and Nancy and Charlotte undress her and help her into the tub. The room is hot like the bath water, and Charlotte is sweating when she sits beside the edge of the tub and Nancy closes the door. Isabella is still, but her eyes are open and she is looking at Charlotte with tired, watery eyes. Charlotte folds her arms on the edge of the tub and sets her chin on top of them.

“Would you believe me if I told you I have imagined this scene before?” Isabella asks, a smirk on her lips. Charlotte laughs, and it feels like it’s the first time she has since Isabella had been gone. “Under different circumstances, of course.”

“Do you spend much time imagining me looking at your naked body, Lady Isabella?”

“Perhaps.” Isabella picks her hand out of the tub and places it on Charlotte’s cheek. It’s warm in the most comforting of ways. She runs her thumb over Charlotte’s bottom lip, which begins to tremble.

Charlotte’s sobs begin before the tears do. She hides her face in her arms as Isabella’s hand comes to rest on the back of her neck. It’s warm and reassuring. Isabella is in front of her; Isabella is safe.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Charlotte says after a little. “I wasn’t the one locked away for months.”

“Well, as I do not have the energy to cry, you can do it for me.” Isabella is looking into Charlotte’s eyes, and Charlotte can see the strength in them. Charlotte picks up a rag and the bar of soap and rubs them together under the water for something to do. It’s the only thing she can do. She begins washing Isabella — starts with her left hand, then gently cleans the wounds on her wrist, then works her way up and around to the other side. There are bruises all over Isabella’s body, though Charlotte can’t identify what they’re from. “Where is Sophia?”

Charlotte hesitates. “I forgot you don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Isabella asks, but Charlotte ignores her.

“Sophia is in the country with Harcourt. It was the only way to get you out. She gave me the key to Harcourt’s desk, then they left and I was able to break in and steal your papers and his letterhead.” Charlotte feels Isabella’s shoulders tense as she tells her.

“She isn’t safe. He’ll—”

“Everything will be fine, Isabella,” Charlotte says quickly. “I gave Sophia a way to protect herself.”

Isabella lets out a breath. “Thank you.”

Charlotte urges Isabella to sit forward, helping her move, and then washes her back. Water sloshes over the sides of the tub and onto Charlotte’s dress, but she doesn’t care. She finishes the rest of Isabella’s body, and it’s slow going, but she’s able to do it with no help from Isabella.

“I’ve been looking in on her.” Charlotte’s voice is quiet, now, as Isabella leans back in the tub with her eyes closed. “Harcourt hasn’t… claimed her, not yet, but she says he’s made advances. It’s a miracle nothing has happened.”

“I will kill him just for that,” Isabella says. Charlotte laughs.

“There will be no murder until you’re rested and have strength. Then you can make all the plans you want to kill him and disappear.”

Isabella furrows her brow. “Disappear?”

“I assume you’ll want to leave with Sophia.” Charlotte begins to wash Isabella’s hair, gently combing it. Almost every inch of it is tangled. “Go abroad, make a new life.”

Isabella reaches back to stop Charlotte’s hands, then turns, slowly, in the tub. The water sloshes more as Isabella pushes herself up to be eye-level with Charlotte. Their lips are barely an inch apart.

“I am never leaving you again, Charlotte. Not as long as you will have me.”

They almost connect their lips, but Isabella’s arms wobble. Charlotte catches her before she falls and lowers her back into the tub.

Charlotte works on Isabella’s hair again. “Be still so I can finish this. Then you can eat and I can kiss you properly.”

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for Charlotte to realize that Isabella isn’t okay. The first night that Isabella is home, she begs Charlotte to lay with her and wraps her arms around Isabella’s waist tightly, not letting go. She sobs, finally, for almost half an hour. Charlotte doesn’t know what to do but hold her and stroke her hair and speak softly of her love into her ear. She only stops when Isabella falls asleep.

She has terrible dreams that wake Charlotte, who startles to find that Isabella is writhing and mumbling. Charlotte feels almost as helpless as she did when Isabella was gone.

Loud noises startle Isabella during the day. She jumps whenever a door opens and cowers at first when Charlotte tries to comfort her. No one in the house begrudges her. They all cheer her up if Charlotte isn’t there, they feed her and lend her clothes and play cards with her. Sophia returns home from her trip with Harcourt and she asks to see Charlotte before seeing her mother.

“What is it?” Charlotte asks as soon as she sits with Sophia in the parlor. Lucy is by her side, holding her hand.

“Harcourt is dead,” Sophia says. Charlotte’s heart stops for a moment. She falls into the chair beside the chaise. “He was drunk and fell down a flight of stairs.”

“What a foolish way to die,” Lucy says with a laugh.

Charlotte is still stunned, she can barely think. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, Lucy.”

“The wretch deserves it,” Lucy mumbles.

“Should I tell my mother?”

“No.” Charlotte shakes her head. “I’ll tell her. Then you can see her.”

Charlotte leaves the parlor and goes to the kitchen where Isabella is eating porridge with Amelia and Mrs. Scanwell. She looks better than she had the week before — there is color in her cheeks, her wounds are healing, bruises fading, and her hair looks clean. Charlotte can’t help but smile when she sees her, as she always does.

“Amelia, Mrs. Scanwell, can I speak with Isabella alone, please?” Charlotte asks.

“Of course,” Amelia says. She puts their porridge to the side and helps her mother out of the room. Charlotte takes her seat and places her hand over Isabella’s.

Isabella knows something is amiss from the look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. The opposite, actually.” Charlotte lets out a breath and places her hands on Isabella’s cheeks. “Harcourt has died.”

Isabella looks shocked, then gleeful, and a tear suddenly rolls down her cheek. Her mouth splits into a huge smile. She pulls Charlotte into a deep kiss, pressing their chests together. She pulls back and smiles again.

“I’m free.”

 

* * *

 

Charlotte falls back on her bed, the exhaustion taking over almost instantly. She opens the bag of coins in her hand and lets them fall onto her stomach. Some bounce off of her stays and onto the bed, others clink together.

“If business keeps up like this, we could take another building,” she says. Isabella turns from the mirror she is sitting before and smiles.

“You know that I will give you whatever money you desire. Say the word and I will buy you a city block.” Isabella pulls a sparkling diamond earring from her ear. It’s part of a new set of jewels she had purchased two days before to match a green gown.

“I cannot let you spend all your money now that you’ve just gotten it.” Charlotte returns to counting her coins. “Besides, I quite like Greek Street. Perhaps I will buy the one next door and knock the walls down between them.”

Isabella looks back to the mirror. “That’s very ambitious of you.”

A knock at the door interrupts the conversation.

“Come in!” Charlotte calls, sitting up and scooping her coins back into the bag.

Sophia opens the door and sticks her head in. “Lucy and I wanted to go out. It’s Rasselas’ birthday, and Amelia and Violet are taking him on a celebration.”

Charlotte takes a few guineas out of the bag and hops off of the bed. She catches Isabella’s eyes in the mirror, and they glare at her in warning.

“Stay together, be home before two. No fights, no men or women.” Charlotte hands the coins to Sophia and winks before whispering, “Unless they’ll pay.”

“I heard that,” Isabella says, but Sophia is already running off, and Charlotte can hear Lucy at the end of the hall.

“You’re just jealous that I’m her favorite.” Charlotte smirks at Isabella through the mirror.

Isabella scoffs. “I’m not jealous, and you aren’t her favorite. She doesn’t have a favorite mother.” Isabella frees her hair of its contraption and begins searching the vanity. “Where did you put the brush?”

Before Charlotte can answer, Isabella pulls open the bottom drawer and stops. She reaches in and pulls out a stack of letters. Charlotte looks away, but she knows that they have Isabella’s name written in black ink on every envelope.

“What are these?” Isabella asks. She fingers the velvet bow that holds them together.

Charlotte swallows thickly. “You might as well read them. First one’s on the top.”

She begins to undress as Isabella pulls the scrap of velvet off and opens the first one. She gasps when she begins to read.

“These are from when I was—”

“Yes.”

Charlotte prepares for bed while Isabella reads each one, taking her time on each sentence. She climbs into bed and plays with her hair, waiting. It takes more than an hour, but Charlotte will wait until eternity for Isabella if she has to.

Isabella looks up from the last letter, and Charlotte can’t fight the blush that rises to her cheeks. She can’t even look Isabella in the eye for too long. Isabella stands from the vanity and crosses the room to climb in bed. She kneels, sits back on her heels, and reaches for Charlotte’s face to turn it towards her.

“I love you.”

Isabella begins to cry, and tears spring to Charlotte’s eyes. Isabella tugs Charlotte up, and they kiss, their tears mixing together.

Charlotte laughs against Isabella’s lips. “I never thought you would read those.”

“Well, I have, and I don’t think I could love you any more than I do now,” Isabella says, wiping the tears from Charlotte’s cheeks and then her own. “I was rather intrigued by one particular letter. Something about exploring me with your mouth?”

“Were you intrigued?” Charlotte asks.

“I was.”

Charlotte smirks. “Then I’ll have to elaborate, won’t I?”

She kisses Isabella, explores her with her mouth; slowly, because they have all the time in the world.

  


**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [@diana-prince-s](http://diana-prince-s.tumblr.com)


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